If You Don't Stop Drinking That Wine It's Gonna Poison Your Mind
by Reader's Inflammation
Summary: Imagine person A of your OTP being an alcoholic. Imagine person B helping person A stop being an alcoholic.


If You Don't Stop Drinking That Wine / It's Gonna Poison Your Mind (Van Morrison)

* * *

Carlos stepped over the threshold of the apartment front door and deposited his coat on the hook behind the door, leaving his science bag on the floor underneath it. Pulling his keys out of his pocket, Carlos also hung those by the lanyard on one of the coat hooks. He walked into their small kitchen and noticed the wine bottle open on the counter next to the sink. Again.

Carlos sighed and went about putting it away in the pantry. He stepped into the living room area and saw his boyfriend yet again drinking a frankly quite large glass of wine whilst sitting on the couch and flipping through stations on the television. He looked up at Carlos and smiled, dropping the hand holding the remote onto the couch and setting the wine glass down on the small table to the right of the couch, thinking that Carlos wouldn't notice it. Carlos sighed again.

"Cecil. Please, we've talked about this."

Whereas Carlos stood still and look pointedly at his boyfriend, Cecil's eyes roamed the living room, looking anywhere but at Carlos, as his hands fidgeted in his lap. When Cecil didn't say anything, Carlos stepped over to the couch and sat down next to Cecil. He put his hand on Cecil's thigh and asked, "Why are you still drinking after work? I'm home. I'm not going anywhere again. You don't have to do this anymore."

Cecil sighed and looked at the television ahead without really perceiving it. "I know," he lamented. "But it's just gotten to be such a habit. . . ." He trailed off.

"I know," Carlos said as he took his hand back from Cecil's thigh. Immediately, Cecil looked up at him. "But you really have to try to stop. I said I would help you. Why haven't you tried calling me before the Wine Time?"

"I—I'm sorry, Carlos. I'm so sorry." Cecil's eyes looked to be tearing up and he shakily ran his fingers through his hair. "I just didn't think that it was a problem. . . ."

"Not a problem?" Carlos asked bewildered. "You're drunk when I get home. You eat practically nothing for dinner and leave me all alone whilst you go pass out in bed—reeking of alcohol, I might add. And then you're grumpy and hungover in the morning." Carlos paused and took an angry breath. "I'd call that a problem."

Cecil merely nodded before taking a deep breath and releasing it. He looked up at Carlos and placed his own hand on his boyfriend's leg. "I know. I know that I'm hurting you. I'm so sorry, Carlos. And I'm gonna do it. I'm really gonna try to stop this time and I can do it. I promise. Okay?"

Cecil looked at Carlos with hopeful puppy-dog eyes, making Carlos chuckle shortly before leaning in to kiss Cecil's nose. "Okay. I believe you. And I know that you can do it. But please let me help, okay?"

Cecil smiled ear-to-ear and practically shouted, "Okay!" before throwing his arms around Carlos's neck. Carlos hugged him back.

Eventually they both leaned back and Cecil offered the remote. "I couldn't find much to watch."

Carlos stood up and picked up Cecil's wine glass, which was already pretty much empty. "Maybe we can watch a movie?" he suggested before taking the last couple sips of wine and heading to the kitchen to wash out the glass and put it in the dishwasher. When he came back into the living room, they both settled in for the night.

* * *

Cecil has really meant it when he told Carlos that he was going to stop drinking. And it had been working surprisingly well so far. He'd gone three days without any alcohol, which was easier after Carlos had taken the wine out of the house. They also didn't have any beer or whiskey or scotch or _anything_ left, as Carlos had take away those, too.

Although, this had begun to make Cecil feel guilty for his addiction. Carlos loved having a bit of scotch after work, but now he couldn't have it in the house because Cecil would gulp it down in one night flat. He was determined to get better as soon as possible, for Carlos's love-of-scotch's sake.

Even though Cecil had promised to Carlos that he could quit drinking, he wasn't quite sure that he could anymore. It had been only three days after Cecil had made that promise that he found himself walking to Gino's Bar after work. At first, Cecil was headed home, but then he took a couple of extra turns that did not lead him back to his and Carlos's apartment complex, and that is how he ended up outside the door.

Looking inside, Cecil could see a couple of people that he knew and used to drink with when Carlos was in the Desert Otherworld. He liked to drink with them mostly for company, but also so he could take a few more drinks than he usually would and still know that he would get home safely.

 _No,_ Cecil scolded himself sharply. _I can't do that anymore. I have company at home. With Carlos._

Shaking his head, Cecil turned around and began walking home. He was almost to the apartment building when he was grabbed by both of his arms and pulled backwards into a small alleyway. It didn't matter whether or not he was pulled out of the open; no one was on the pavement around him anyways so he couldn't shout for help. Not only that, but he couldn't shout for help even if wanted to because the person that had grabbed him currently held a small switchblade to Cecil's throat.

"Look man," the person behind him said. "Give me your wallet and I won't hurt you." Cecil was shaking almost violently, but he slowly reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his wallet. He tried to say "Here" as he held it up in plain sight, but he found that he had no voice.

The mugger did not care anyways; he grabbed the wallet and ran, but not before crashing the butt of his knife down into the back of Cecil's head. He fell forward and hit the ground with a resounding thump as he listened to retreating footsteps resonating off of the walls in the small alleyway. Everything was fading and finally Cecil blacked out.

* * *

When Cecil once again came to, he was very confused. He sat himself up and leaned against the wall while he looked around. He was in a small alleyway, but no one else was there. He didn't even know why he was there. He remembered heading home. Why wasn't he home?

As Cecil stood up, he felt a jolt in his stomach and immediately keeled over. Landing on his knees with his hands trying to support himself alongside the wall, he threw up all over the ground in front of him. His head hurt. His stomach hurt. He was extremely confused at what was happening. And he just really wanted to go home.

He attempted to stand again, but once again threw up. Alought, he did stay standing as he did so this time, so he counted that as a win.

Slowly, Cecil made his way out of the alley by using his hands to push himself along the wall. Once he made it out, he turned around, looking for the street that his apartment building was on, but he couldn't seem to find it. He let out a frustrated breath and shut his eyes tight as he pressed his hands to either side of his head at the temples.

 _Why can't I just get home?!_ Cecil shouted in his head. Right as he was about to fall to a sitting position from the headache, a car pulled up right next to him on the curb. The window rolled down and the woman sitting in the passenger's seat leaned slightly out.

"Hey, are you okay?" she asked.

"I . . . I need to, um . . ." Cecil stumbled over his words, trying to collect his thoughts. He asked if she could point him to the apartment building street. She gave him a concerned look.

"Have you been drinking, sir?"

Why would she ask him that? Of course he hadn't. Why would she think that?

"I. . . . No, I haven't," Cecil said as forcefully as possible. "Why would you ask me that?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you," the woman told him. "It's just that you're slurring your words."

Cecil just stared at her.

"Would you like us to drive you home?" she asked. Cecil looked around. He still couldn't remember where the apartment was.

"Um, I don't—I don't know if that's a good idea," he said, taking a step backwards.

The woman held up her hands in a placating manner. "It's okay. That's fine. Your apartment is just down this road and it's the driveway on the right." She paused and then asked him if he was going to find it alright. He said that he would and the car drove away with a small wave from the woman's window.

Cecil went over the directions in his head so that he wouldn't forget as he started out in the direction of the complex. Every few steps he placed his hand on the walls of the buildings on his right down the pavement. He wasn't sure how long it took him, but eventually Cecil arrived at the complex. It was beginning to get really dark, but he could still see the buttons on the door to allow access to the building.

He punched in the code to the door and walked inside. He tripped over his feet and his hands fell onto the wall in front of him next to the elevator. He took a couple deep breaths as he began walking towards his apartment door. A few doors down, Cecil stopped and realized that he had gone down the wrong hallway and turned around until he came to the correct apartment number.

He tried to turn the doorknob, but it wouldn't budge. He leaned up against the door and tried to dig within his pockets for the key, but he couldn't find it. He took a deep, frustrated breath before he jiggled the doorknob for longer this time. He tried knocking as well.

Suddenly, the door opened quickly, knocking Cecill off-balance. He reached for the door frame to steady himself and he felt hands grab him. He looked up and saw Carlos with a worried frown on his face.

"Cecil?" he asked. "Are you okay?"

"I," Cecil started before he shook his head back and forth but immediately regretted it as he became extremely woozy again. "No. No. I'm gonna throw up."

Carlos's eyes widened and he pulled Cecil into their small kitchen and over to the sink where the latter promptly vomited. Carlos rubbed small soothing circles into his back.

"Oh, Ceec," Carlos lamented. "You were doing so well. . . ." He trailed off.

Cecil's head lifted up slowly. "What? What do you mean?" When Carlos shushed him comfortingly, Cecil because desperate. "No! No, Carlos. I'm not drunk. I wasn't drinking. It was—there was this person! And they stopped me when I was coming home. I—"

Cecil was cut off as he had tried to move to see Carlos more clearly to just explain what had happened, but his knees gave out and he slumped into Carlos's grip.

"Easy, Cecil! It's okay. Just come with me. We're gonna go to bed."

Cecil tried to stand up again, tried to agree with Carlos, tried to tell him about the man and the mugging and how his head hurt; it hurt so very much. He tried to push himself away from Carlos, but he also tried to follow him to the warm promise of a bed. He just desperately wanted everything around him to stop. And Cecil passed out. And everything did stop.

* * *

When Cecil woke up again, he was in bed. The covers were tucked around him. His phone was plugged in and charging. His alarm on his phone had been turned off. The curtains were drawn and the lights in the bedroom were off. Carlos had put him to bed last night.

Cecil remembered what had happened on his way home from work. He could clearly remember stopping at the bar, walking down a different street than usual to get home, being pulled into the alley, having a knife at his throat as the mugger demanded his wallet, being hit upside the head, falling to the ground—yet nothing after that.

He couldn't remember how he had gotten home, but he did somewhat remember a young woman in a car helping him. He didn't remember how she had, but he feels like she did. He also remembered throwing up—a lot. And he remembered that Carlos was there.

Carlos! Cecil had tried to explain what had happened and how he wasn't drunk. But Carlos had quieted him, calmed him down, and put him to bed. He had to find Carlos and just explain to him—

Cecil attempted to get out of bed. He threw back the covers and sat up, only with a touch of nausea, swung his legs over the side, and stood up—only to fall flat on his face.

He heard footsteps and the bedroom door open as he tried to sit back up whilst pushing down the impending nausea. Carlos's hands came to his back to help him sit up.

"Cecil, what happened?" he asked. "You can't still be intoxicated. It's been over twelve hours."

Cecil shut his eyes tight. "'M not drunk. Got hit."

Carlos looked shocked. "What?"

"My head. Somebody hit it when they stole my wallet."

Carlos's hands instantly squeezed tighter around Cecil's torso as he gave a small gasp. "Cecil, were you mugged last night?"

When Cecil nodded very shortly, as his headache became infinitely worse and bile rose up in his throat, Carlos again gasped and started helping Cecil stand up.

"Come on, Ceec. We have to get you to the hospital."

Cecil didn't acknowledge Carlos beyond the fact that he cooperated in standing up. Carlos slid his arm around Cecil's back, throwing Cecil's arm over his shoulders, and helped his take small steps down the hallway and into the kitchen. Carlos grabbed his keys, helped Cecil out and into the car, and drove them to the hospital.

* * *

"What brings you guys in today?" Dr Teddy Williams asked as Cecil sat down on the parchment-covered bed and Carlos took a seat in the chair next to it. Cecil's eyes were half-lidded and he looked extremely worse for wear.

"Cecil was mugged last night and the mugger hit him on the back of the head with the butt of a knife, he told me," Carlos said. "We didn't want to have to wait in the ER forever so we came to the walk-in here."

"Has he been complaining of a headache?" the doctor asked as he jotted down notes on his clipboard.

"Yes, he has a headache, plus discoordination, weakness—mostly in his legs like he can't hold himself up—and he was very confused last night and his words were slurring. I thought he had just come home drunk. Said that he couldn't find his apartment key or even the apartment! Had to get directions from just a couple blocks away."

Dr Williams wrote down everything Carlos had told him and turned to Cecil, taking out a penlight from his pocket. He clicked it on as he told Cecil to look directly ahead. He shined the light in both eyes back and forth before clicking it off. He then told him to follow his finger with just his eyes as he moved it side-to-side in front of Cecil's face.

"Alright, it seems to me that you have a moderate concussion," Dr Williams said. "How long did he sleep last night?"

"He got home around seven and I put him right to bed and he woke up around eight, so a little over twelve hours."

"And he woke up just fine? You didn't have to shake him or shout?"

"No, he woke up by himself and tried to get out of bed, but collapsed."

Dr Williams set down his clipboard. "Alright Cecil. Here's what you're going to do: I'm going to write your Station Management saying that you have a moderate concussion and that you are unable to go to work for at least two weeks. Most likely longer. You have to stay in bed or on the couch. No sitting up for extending periods of time and definitely no walking around for any longer than it takes to get to the bathroom." He turned to Carlos. "And Carlos, you're going to have to help him with moving around too much and with meals, I'd presume. No more than a few Saltine crackers every few hours for the first day or so, in case his stomach gets upset. But he has to be extremely hydrated. Sipping water enough to refill it every hour to two hours. And that means a lot of bathroom breaks throughout the day."

Carlos nodded his acknowledgment. The doctor continued.

"He should take over-the-counter acetaminophen—325 to 650 mg every 4 to 6 hours or 1,000 mg every 6 to 8 hours. The generic type is usually the cheapest, so get that because he is likely going to be popping pills like no tomorrow. Never exceed more than 4,000 mg in 24 hours and drink an entire glass of water with each dose.

"For stomach pains, use a heating pad or a heating blanket, but don't let his body temperature rise over 99.0℉. Alternate with ice packs if you need to. And call me if he starts experiencing other symptoms—pain in the neck, blurry vision, anything at all.

"And Cecil, you absolutely cannot drink any alcohol while you are recovering. It may slow your recovery time or cause seizures. You could even develop epilepsy—chronic seizures."

Cecil stared at Dr Williams and nodded slowly. "Okay, I won't."

Dr Williams smiled. "Good. I want to see you again in two weeks to see how you are doing and accommodate any changes in your recovery."

Carlos stood up and shook the doctor's hand. "Thank you. We will."

"Alrighty. See you soon, Cecil. Feel better."

"Thank you," Cecil said as he stood up from the bed, immediately grabbing for Carlos's arm for stability. Carlos helped out of the exam room and to the car; they drove home and got Cecil set-up for two weeks of rest and recuperation.

As soon as Carlos set Cecil up on the couch for today, he left to get him a water bottle to always have with him and to grab the acetaminophen from the medicine cabinet. He also brought the heating pad for whenever Cecil needed it.

Cecil waited in the living room, lying on the couch with the throw blanket thrown over him, a pillow supporting his head, as he waited for Carlos to return, which took longer than the "couple minutes" Carlos had said that it would take him. When he got back, Cecil asked him where he had gone.

"Oh, I was just calling out of work for the upcoming week," he said. "Making good use of the stored up PTO."

Carlos gently laid down on the opposite end of the couch as Cecil and turned on the Netflix box on their television.

"Want to watch a movie?" he asked his laid-up boyfriend, who nodded. They picked one out and Carlos made sure to remind Cecil every some-odd minutes to keep drinking his water. About halfway through the movie, Cecil slowly began to shift himself on the couch.

"Do you have to get up?" Carlos asked worriedly as he swung his legs off of the couch. Cecil shook his head before rotating his body so that he could lean against his boyfriend's side. He let out a comforting sigh as Carlos wrapped his arm around him, pulling him close, and settled back into the couch as he slowly carded his fingers threw Cecil's hair, lulling him to sleep.

* * *

Imagine person A of your OTP being an alcoholic. Imagine person B helping person A stop being an alcoholic. Imagine if one day person A hits their head and comes home acting like they're drunk because they're loopy and person B scolds them for drinking then person A slumps into their arms, unconscious, and person B just thinks that they're flat out drunk and puts them to bed and ends up falling asleep next to them. Imagine person A telling B what happened the next morning and B feeling bad.


End file.
